And lives to clutch the golden keys,

To mould a mighty state's decrees,

And shape the whisper of the throne.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): In Memoriam. lxiv. Stanza 3.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling as to sight? or art thou but

A dagger of the mind, a false creation,

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act ii. Sc. 1.